On my way in, I was listening to the [Randi Rhodes Show] on the radio. They were talking about the gay marriages that were destroyed in Oregon.

She received a caller saying that he was for gay rights, but against civil unions. He felt that civil unions would destroy the institution of marriage.

She tore into him. His beliefs basically boiled down to… “Civil Unions are bad… Gays should get married.”

I thought to myself “#@(*@!”

He’s somewhat right, but for the wrong reasons. YES, Civil unions are TERRIBLE. They’re the same thing as “Colored” drinking fountains.

Talk about missing the point. I’m sure the gays would LOVE to get married and have all the protections that the hets are enjoying. That would be ABSO-FUCKING-WONDERFUL. But they CAN’T. Civil Unions are a stop gap to play at allowing some of the same legal protections, while dodging the issue of the “Others”.

The “Others” in this case, being the people who aren’t even INVOLVED in any of these marriages, but I guess they’re PRETTY DAMNED THREATENED that somewhere, dudes may be kissing.

Uck. Dudes. KISSING. OUR SOCIETY IS DOOMED!

If you listen to Michael Savage, you know that when dudes kiss, PEDOPHILIA AND BEASTIALITY are NEXT!

Dudes… KISSING…. YOUR SON… AND YOUR DOG!

YOUR AMERICAN DOG! DUDES KISSING YOUR AMERICAN DOG! TEACHING YOUR SON TO KISS YOUR AMERICAN DOG!

SURE AS HELL IT’S GOING TO BE CATS AND FARM ANIMALS NEXT!

So… Kudos to you, Mr. “I love Gays, They should get Married”. Yes. Yes they should. You missed the fucking bus.

As I said in a conversation with Erinpoo last night, “If there’s anyone who should be wearing the “I don’t count.” shirt, it’s 3,000 people in Oregon. That’s EXACTLY the message that they got served the other day.

I need to stop listening to Talk Radio.

P.S. - “This is what the alphabet would look like, if we didn’t have Q’s or R’s.” - Mitch Hedburg

P.P.S. - Go listen to [I Heart Fags] by MC Frontalot. The page links to the lyrics, which will link you to the Em-Pea-Threes!

“and here comes your presidential cheerleader now
so disturbed by the marriages in my home town
that he’s got to take the tip top law in the land down
scribble on it: “I hate homos, big bad frown.”

9:30 AM - Wake up. Put on bathrobe. Play with internet.
10:00 AM - Phone call from work… things are broken.
10:30 AM - Discover hardware is broken not software.
11:00 AM - Throw on clothes. Drive to work to fix hardware.
11:14 AM - Arrive at work. Discover wallet is at home. Remember door and elevator key are in the wallet.
11:18 AM - Wander around the outside doors looking for unlocked doors.
11:20 AM - Follow unsuspecting people into different office. They smile and hold the door for me, assuming I work with them.
11:22 AM - Remember I can’t take the elevator to the 6th floor.
11:26 AM - Reach the fifth floor. Mental note: Need to quit smoking.
11:27 AM - Use office key to enter office. Take off jacket, turn on computer. Go into the “Spares Room” to find replacement hardware.
11:29 AM - Find ET-M1 card. Discover “Spares Room” door is locked. Key is currently in the jacket, in the control room.
11:30 AM - Call boss. Feel like a jerk. Ask him to come rescue me from the locked “Spares Room”.
11:31 AM - Pound on door to “Control Room”.
11:32 AM - Open mouth and let out loud frustrated noise. “GRAAAAAAAGH!”
11:33 AM - Go through a coworker’s desk in the “Spares Room” and discover key.
11:34 AM - Let boss know that I violated a coworker’s personal space, and am no longer locked in.
11:35 AM - Remove ET-M1 card, and replace it. This is the easiest task all morning. Should actually be the hardest.
11:40 AM - Bring broken cell sites back on air.
12:00 PM - Drive home to get wallet, to do grocery shopping.

Everyone in the company got one of these. Granted, we’re a wireless company, and they’re supposed to mean “I don’t count (minutes)”.

At least I don’t work in the stores where they HAVE to wear them.

I think there’s something going on at the grocery store.

I’m in the check out line. There’s a lady in front of me, and a lady in front of her.

The lady in the front of the line, finishes her business and wheels off with her cart. The lady in front of me has all of her stuff rung up. Then… all of my stuff is rung up.

As I’m paying, the first lady wheels up, and has a case of beer in her cart. She tells the checker that it isn’t hers. The checker argues. He tells her that it was the first thing she bought. He says this just as the second lady shows up, wondering where her case of Budweiser went.

As I’m watching the drama unfold, the bag-guy takes my groceries, and puts them in the first lady’s cart.

I don’t mean Laura Bush. She wasn’t there. The lady who was wondering why she had this other lady’s beer.

Well… not she has the other ladies beer, as well as my bread, lunch meat, foot powder, cran-raspberry juice, deoderant, veggie pockets, and Mac and Soy Cheeze.

This unchecked act of aggression can not stand.

I look at the bag boy and say “She has my groceries.”

He responds, “Huh?”

At this moment, I channel the unembodied spirit of the recently deceased, Mitch Hedburg. I perform an action that my special lady friend and I have come to term “Mitching.”

“I don’t know if that lady needs foot powder, but I sure do!”

The bag-guy understands the Mitching, and hands me my groceries. I think he’s got some shady deal with the first lady. (Again, I don’t mean Laura Bush.)